Embracing Change
by cactusnell
Summary: Sherlock Holmes doesn't like change, but his fashion choices are falling victim to econonics. How can he cope? Sherlolly. Based on a prompt from Ladycrafter. Once again, thank you!


Sherlock Holmes was certainly brilliant enough to come to the conclusion that he was acting crazy. The man who had easily and without compunction described himself as a "high functioning sociopath', was loathe to admit that he may, in fact, also be a bit of an obsessive compulsive. The truth was he hated change. Change of any kind. He had adopted a persona for himself, represented by his choice of wardrobe, and had stuck with it for years, since his hard fought and tenuous victory over his drug use. He was not about to change it now.

But, it would seem, economics, and the changing London fashion scene was conspiring against him. First, a few years ago, Belstaff discontinued making his favorite coat. He had taken this in stride, bitten the bullet, and done the only thing he could do. He purchased five additional coats, enough, he believed to last for a number of years, and had a specially built cedar lined closet installed in Mrs. Hudson's basement. At the coast of 1350 pounds each, this had been quite an investment, but one he was willing to make to insure his sartorial security.

The next item to go had been his Paul Smith cashmere scarf, in navy blue. The precise shade to set off his singularly blue-green eyes. He had managed to find an almost suitable substitute, in a similar color, but it wasn't quite the same. So, to insure another disaster, a stockpile of scarves joined his Belstaffs in the closet.

And now, bloody hell, Spencer Hart, his favorite Savile Row tailor, was facing financial difficulty. It would only be a mild exaggeration to say that the world's only consulting detective was having a bit of a panic attack! He had spent the last several days in his flat contemplating the situation. His friends would have said he was sulking, but he preferred the term "contemplating". Sherlock had decided, all by himself in the end, that he was reacting a bit neurotically. Change was good, everybody had told him. It should be faced as a challenge, one to be met with dignity and courage. He would adapt. He would go with the flow. He would change. He grabbed his Belstaff, and headed off to the shops.

Two days later, Dr. Molly Hooper had her head bent over a microscope in the path lab at St. Bart's when she heard the door being pushed open. She knew it was Sherlock from his technique. Always the one to make an entrance, the man had mastered the art of pushing the door open with just enough vigor to make a distinctive swooshing sound, but just short of enough force to have it slam into the wall. Remarkable! Molly barely spared him a glance, interested as she was in her work. She merely cocked one eye in his direction, and muttered a greeting. Until her mind registered what she had just seen.

Sherlock Holmes was standing before her in jeans, a studded black leather motorcycle jacket over a Harley-Davidson tee shirt, appropriately tight, and heavy black boots. His hair (thankfully uncut) had been slicked back from his forehead, and sunglasses covered his wonderful eyes. He whipped off the glasses, and asked if she had any coffee brewed.

"Sherlock, are you undercover, or something?", Molly inquired, giving him the once over.

"No. Why do you ask?"

"Possibly because you look like something out of an old Marlon Brando movie!"

"Is that a good thing?"

"Well, yes, I guess. As long as it is an old Marlon Brando MOVIE, and not an old Marlon Brando!" Molly giggled a bit at her own joke.

"I am simply trying a new look, Dr. Hooper. I am embracing change."

"That's not an embrace, Sherlock. That's an outright assault!" Molly was interrupted as John Watson came through the door, perhaps in search of a lunch companion, as it was about that time, and he had just finished his rounds. Sherlock was about to speak to him when the smaller man burst into gales of laughter, and retreated the way he had come in, reaching for his mobile, and muttering, "Wait 'til Mary hears about this!"

"I sense that you have lost your luncheon companion, Molly. Would you care to join me for a ride on my 'hog'?"

Still giggling, Molly couldn't resist asking, "Your hog? Have you taken to mistreating farm animals, too?"

"I have advised you on many previous occasions to give up on your attempts at humor, Dr. Hooper. As you seem uninterested, I shall be on my way." And with that, he turned on his heel to leave.

Molly had visions of holding on tightly to Sherlock's well toned torso as they sped through the the streets of London. She discarded her lab coat, grabbed her cherry covered jumper, and ran off to catch the easy rider of her dreams before he rode off into the sunset.

Sherlock's next foray into a change of style came just a few days later, having decided that motorcycles were a bit noisier, and a tad more inconvenient, than London taxis. Once again. he joined Molly Hooper at the morgue, accompanied this time by DI Greg Lestrade. She did not recognize him at first, assuming him to be some street level informant who was providing information to the policeman on a case. He wore tattered jeans, baggy, and a tee shirt of the band Headswim. Molly remembered them as a grunge band from the nineties, whom she had listened to while at uni. He also had on a worn flannel shirt, unbuttoned to show off the tee, and high top trainers. His face bore a five o'clock shadow, which was amazing in and of itself, because Sherlock Holmes never had a five o'clock shadow, not even at five o'clock!

"Bloody hell, what happened to you?" she asked the consulting detective with some alarm, but was to receive no answer.

"Evidently, it's his new look, Molly," Greg replied for him. "I've actually seen him look better when I was dragging him out of drug dens! All he needs is the glassy-eyed stare."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "My look is retro, Lestrade. It's a fashion statement."

"Well, let me tell you something, mate. It's a statement nobody over the age of eighteen should be making!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but did concede, at least to himself, that this look was, possibly, not a success. He couldn't wait to get home and wash his hair! Molly Hooper, on the other hand, was taking it all in, and wishing she had gone to the same uni as he had. His younger self, all grunged up, would have been adorable! And that five o'clock shadow would have added just the right amount of macho to his neck nuzzling…

She was stopped in the middle of her reverie by Sherlock's request to see the body of one Miss Abigail Leffco. Never a request to see her's, Molly thought, as she open the refrigerated compartment to display Miss Leffco, grateful for the chill of the air to cool down her heated thoughts.

By the time the weekend rolled around, the main topic of conversation for the small group of friends had been Sherlock's attempts at changing his style. Mobile lines were being tied up with photos of his latest attempts, photos which would forever live on the internet, or the cloud, or wherever photos go so they can haunt you in your later years. The same people who had laughed at his resistance to change were now hoping for a return of the sartorial splendor that was Sherlock Holmes. And the last straw hit the camel's back on Sunday afternoon.

John and Mary Watson always spent Sunday afternoon at their flat with their toddler daughter, Claire. They were often joined by the child's godparents, Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper. On this particular Sunday, Molly had been the first to arrive, and the three adults waited with some degree of impatience, and apprehension, to see what the world's only consulting detective would be wearing on this occasion. And he did not disappoint!

The three adults stared at the vision before their eyes, struck speechless. Sherlock looked like something out of the sixties, or possibly seventies. He was attired in bell bottomed jeans and a tie dyed shirt. His curls were completely askew, a mad tangle crowning his head, and he wore sandals on his formerly well-shod feet. Three adults may have been struck speechless, but his goddaughter was blanketing the room with her gales of laughter! Three mobile phones were removed from various resting places, their shutters clicking in quick succession.

"Bloody hell!" was the only thing Sherlock had to say before beating a hasty retreat.

Mycroft Holmes had been enjoying a quiet Sunday when he mobile signalled an incoming message. And another. And another. He opened them in quick succession, and stared incredulously at the photos. This was getting out of hand. It was now time to call in the marines, so to speak.

On the way back to his flat, Sherlock received a call from his mummy, and answered it with some trepidation. "Yes, mummy?"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, although you look amazingly like your father, not even he could carry off that look. And that was in the appropriate decade!"

"Mummy…"

"Go home and change, immediately. Mycroft and I are on the way!"

Sherlock let out a small groan. "Don't make the sound at me, young man! Mycroft has matters well in hand. We shall see you shortly!"

The detective arrived home shortly, and made his way to his bedroom to change. He quickly removed the offending items, and pulled on a simple pair of pajama bottoms. He then shrugged into his navy silk Derek Rose dressing gown, hoping against hope that the same would always be available at Harrod's. He then made his way to the sitting room, to await his fate. He had only tried to follow others' advice. To embrace change. To welcome it. Apparently, his friends had just as many problems with change as he had!

After some considerable time, he began to hear some commotion downstairs, but would not give into the temptation to investigate. There were voices. More than just his mother and Mycroft, it seemed. He heard John and Mary, Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson offering to make tea for everyone. His curiosity was beginning to get the better of him. He suspected an intervention of some sort was about to take place. Then he heard his mother's voice calling, "Will, I know you're up there! Get down here immediately!"

Sherlock found himself torn. On the one hand, he disliked being summoned as if he were still a child. On the other, he was extremely curious about what could be downstairs which was so important. Pulling his dressing gown tightly around him, he made his way slowly to the stairs, and down to the landing, where he was instructed to continue on to the basement. Did they plan on confronting him about his stockpile of discontinued fashion? If they so much as touched one of the Belstaffs, someone would die. Hopefully Mycroft! But when he reached the cedar closet, he was surprised to find it filled to the brim with Spencer Hart suits, Derek Rose dressing gowns, and all manner of other items. Someone, Mycroft, he imagined, had even managed to get hold of his favorite Paul Smith two-tone leather gloves, which had been discontinued the previous year. There was a wide assortment of Dolce and Gabbana shirts, 100 percent cotton, slim fit! An inordinate number of these shirts, he noticed, were aubergine. He glanced over at Molly Hooper, who blushed accordingly. Aubergine was her favorite.

"Will, dear, do your remember that blankie you used to carry everywhere when you were a child?"

"Mummy, I see no reason to embarrass me…"

"Do shut up, Will," Violet Holmes said dismissively. "I have convinced your brother that the world should no longer be subjected to your new found sense of adventure in regard to your fashion choices. This closet is like that security blanket. When you chose to move on, you will do so of your own accord. But until then, you may rest assured that a sufficient supply of your favorite clothing is readily available."

"Mummy, this is entirely unnecessary. I am fully capable of adjusting…"

"Of course you are, brother," Mycroft said rather archly. "But better safe than sorry, eh. The tie dyed look was particularly offensive, if I may say so. I hope you save it, though. Someone may need it for Halloween."

"Come now, Mycroft. All my experiments were not complete failures," Sherlock spoke with a bit of a snicker. "Dr. Hooper seemed to appreciate the 'bad boy' look of my biker gear, if the way she clung to my torso is any indication."

As Molly was beginning to blush at his brother's comments, Mycroft Holmes took it upon himself to ease her discomfort a bit. "Perhaps Dr. Hooper would care to have a look in the small trunk in the corner, Sherlock?"

"No need to explore every little nook and cranny of my guilty little hoard, Mycroft. No time, in any event. Mrs. Hudson has prepared tea, remember?"

But Mycroft was already lifting the lid of the aforementioned trunk to reveal at least a dozen colorful jumpers, all with cherries, and all in Molly's size.

Molly Hooper looked completely puzzled. "Sherlock, what does this mean?"

But Mycroft answered for his younger brother. "I imagine it means, Dr. Hooper, that he intends to keep you, and your fanciful jumpers, around for the long haul. Am I correct, brother mine?"

"Aren't you always, Mycroft?"

"So, Dr. Hooper, can I assume that you will attempt to wean my brother off of his rather narrow array of fashion choices, so we do not have a repeat of this unfortunate episode?" 

Sherlock looked at his brother, grinning for the first time. "Really, Mycroft. Perhaps we shouldn't impose on the good doctor. That process could take years and years!"

"I'm counting on it, brother!" Mycroft said with snicker, "And so is Mummy, I might add."

And, reading between the lines of this conversation, Molly Hooper smiled broadly, feeling herself perfectly up to the task.


End file.
